Paper Cranes
by Vieux
Summary: Yukimura Seiichi is a realist. The girl in room 201B is a dreamer. They compliment each other in a way that is abstract and indescribable, stuck in an endless dance of circular lies and fragile formalities. But anchors don't weigh birds down forever- and somehow, at the end of it all, Yukimura wishes he at least knew her name. /Yukimura-centric, slightly angsty/


**A/N: Here you go, the product of reading fanfiction online. I fell in love with the author's portrayal of Yukimura, even though he wasn't a main character. So somehow, I managed to write 5000 words of... stuff (crap?) around him. At least I can move on with my life since I'm finished. Enjoy~**

Title: Paper Cranes

Summary: Yukimura Seiichi is a realist. The girl in room 201B is a dreamer. They compliment each other in a way that is abstract and indescribable, stuck in an endless dance of lies and formalities. But anchors can't weigh birds down forever, because those who are made to fly inevitably will.

Warnings: None

* * *

"Guillain-Barré syndrome isn't terribly devastating. It could be worse."

That's what all the doctors and nurses and volunteers tell him. But they just don't understand. He is Yukimura Seiichi, and to him, Guillain-Barré syndrome is almost a death sentence.

"Yukimura-san, you have three more treatments before you can begin rehabilitation. While we prepare your room, would you like to visit the rooftop terrace?"

Honestly, he doesn't care. It's not as if they're really giving him a choice. Asking if he minds is nothing more than a formality- a false display of respect.

One one hand, he's merely another sick patient stuck in a rather depressing hospital that is located in an equally depressing world. And yet, on the other hand, _he is Yukimura Seiichi_. He is the captain of the nation's number one tennis team, he is the _child of god_.

Clinging onto such a title sparks something close to motivational inside of him, and makes him want to snipe, to yell, to scream. Instead, he settles for a mocking smile to complement his cold, icy eyes. "As you wish."

He settles into the wheel chair and begins pushing himself along, up the grey ramp. The nurses have long given up on trying to lend him a hand, with more than a few of them still traumatized from his cutting words, sharper than a knife. He's panting, but he forces himself to make it all the way up in one go without rest. He can't stop. He needs to _win._

"Hello." There's a girl there, with her long black hair tugged into a braid. She's sitting on a wooden bench that overlooks the entire city, her pale hands clasped neatly. "Did you need some fresh air too?"

Yukimura barely manages to hold in a scoff. Fresh air? No, the only thing he needs right now is to be able to play tennis; to be able to stand once more on that clean rectangular court, and to feel the exhilaration while he tosses a ball into the air. Once again, he settles for a relaxing smile. "Perhaps."

The clock tower strikes 12 somewhere in the distance- it must be lunch time.

The girl turns around and smiles slightly. "I suppose I must be going. But if you ever need anything, 201B is the room."

And with that, he is left facing her retreating back, feeling the chill of autumn's breath down his pastel hospital gown.

* * *

His fingers clenched his white bed sheets partially in fury, partially in despair. But no, that's not right. _He is Yukimura Seiichi_. Despair is unfeasible, unfathomable, and most of all, unacceptable.

" _I'm so sorry, but with your current condition, there just isn't a way we can possibly begin rehabilitation, Yukimura-san. You'll need at least another two weeks, assuming your health quickly improves."_

And suddenly, he can't think about anything else but proving himself. Proving that he's _fine_ , that he can do things by _himself_. Because maybe he just needs someone else to see it- to acknowledge his existence, his skills, and his strength. To acknowledge _him_.

And that is how, five minutes later, he finds himself knocking on the door to room 201B, staring at the light oak door identical to his own. The moment he enters, he is struck with the smell of flowers. Daisies, daffodils, and tulips- they bloom beautifully on a decorated window sill. Glancing around, he's struck by how different her room is to his. Where his walls are barren, hers are colorful- decorated with various paintings and photographs, among other small trinkets of art.

"Hello. I expected to see you soon." The ever present smile that graces her lips irritates him.

"In this world, it is foolish to expect anything." His voice rings out cold and cutting, rather odd and out of place in the tranquil environment.

"Perhaps."

Is she mocking him? He has half the mind to glare, but decides against it. "Apologies, I didn't mean to disturb your peace. My room is being prepared again."

His obvious lie hangs thick in the air, but she waves it off completely with another smile. "Well then, you are welcome to remain here for the time being. Would you like to make a crane?" From her seated position in bed, she offers him a piece of pastel blue paper. "They really are quite lovely."

His smile is stretched taunt with the effort to keep it from slipping. "Perhaps. I suppose that would be nice." He rolls over in his wheelchair, and she lowers her bed. "May I inquire why you are so interested in making these paper birds?" He tries to keep the disdain out of his voice.

She smiles again. It seems that the more fake he is, the more genuine she becomes. "Have you never heard of the legend? If one makes a thousand paper cranes, they can have any wish they want. You write your wish on your last crane."

He almost scoffs. "And do you truly believe in such… whimsical tales?"

She isn't remotely offended. "Of course. In Greece, hope never left Pandora's box and humans after all."

This time, Yukimura forces out a smile of his own. He can't stop the mirth from entering his expression. "Naturally. Yet at the time Hope chose to remain with mankind, starvation, disease, poverty, nemesis, and darkness chose to as well."

Her new smile is tinged slightly with curiosity. "And likewise, do you truly believe in such… despondent ideals?"

This time his smile slips. "Yes, I do. Now, I believe that my room is ready. Perhaps making cranes will have to wait until next time, yes?"

She bids him farewell, and this time he gets a twisted sense of satisfaction on being the one to leave.

* * *

The next time they meet, three days later, he's walking. Her room may be far from his (a whole two floors, in fact), but it's certainly not far from the testing room where doctors prod him like a needle cushion. He leaves his wheelchair in one of the nearby broom closets. The nurses will be mad, but they're just as helpless in the end. He tells himself that he's ready for rehabilitation. He will show her that he has no need for any of her good wishes.

Confidently, he knocks, and waits.

Her soft voice floats through the door, inviting him in.

Her room has changed, but the overall aura hasn't. There are more pictures on the wall, and more paintings too. The three flower pots from before seem to be wilting.

"I see your flowers are dying."

She looks up. "Of course. Life and death form a natural, yet inevitable cycle."

He raises an eyebrow. "That's not a very idealistic thing to say."

Her pink lips curve into another one of those sweet smiles that he occasionally despises. "Perhaps it is not." With that, she gestures to the metal watering can. "I suppose I will water it again later."

"Water doesn't heal or revive a plant. Like you said, death is inevitable."

"All the more reason to enjoy beauty while it lasts."

She's folding cranes again. He notices three strings of them already hung up on the ceiling.

She must have noticed his wandering gaze. "Aren't they lovely? The nurse was ever so kind as to hang them up for me the other day."

It's far more likely that the nurse felt pity for having to watch such a child like her suffer, but he wisely holds his tongue. And then he notices that she's offering him a piece of paper, just as she did before. It's blue again, this time a bit more saturated than the last piece. He pretends not to notice.

Searching around the room for a distraction, his eyes find the sink, filled with brushes and palettes. "Are you a painter as well?"

"Sometimes."

He doesn't understand her. How can one _sometimes_ be a painter, and sometimes not? Yukimura brushes it off, assuming that she means she _paints_ sometimes. "Well, you are quite the artist, I suppose?"

"Maybe."

Again, with the noncommittal responses.

"Would you like to sit down?"

At her words, he finally realizes how hard his legs are trembling. He finally feels the straining of his calves and the burning in his thighs. To accept, or not to accept. It's a choice that has to be made. Apparently, she decides to make his decision easier.

"It's difficult to hold a conversation like this. It's not necessarily soothing when someone towers over you. Why don't you take that chair right there next to my bed?"

Thus, he "grudgingly" sits down, and they both pretend as if it's merely for the sake of formalities and mutual respect.

"This is my 301st crane." It's so random, so sudden.

"That is… excellent. I congratulate you. Good luck on the other 699," he can't resist adding.

Her lips twitch slightly, and her eyes seem to brighten. "Thank you. I can't wait to finish them all."

He doesn't bother telling her that she probably won't.

"So, how long have you been here?"

The topic change is not remotely subtle, and should have been seen from miles away. Yet it still surprises him. "A few months."

She nods slowly. "I suppose you look forward to leaving?"

His back stiffens slightly. "Doesn't everyone?"

She gives a noncommittal hum in response, pulling one corner of the new paper to the other.

"Perhaps you haven't been here long enough yet to realize it, but this hospital is a prison."

She hums again.

At this point, Yukimura doesn't know why he's continuing, but the words slide out as easily and slippery as melting butter. "The day I leave is the day I am released- the day when the anchor on me is finally lifted. If you don't want to get out, then save the doctor's time for patients that do."

At this she looks up, and there's an odd look in her eyes. A soft, cool flame. "Perhaps that is so. Why were you admitted?"

"Guillain–Barré syndrome." His response is short and to the point. It really doesn't matter if she can't understand it.

"I see. And you are an athlete, yes? How tragic." Under any other circumstances, the words would sound mocking. If it were anyone else, he would shut them up with a slap. But it's a bedridden girl who seems to do nothing but dream, and somehow, the words don't sound half as mirthful when falling from her lips.

"Yes, I was a tennis player." He's curious as to how she knows, but it's beyond his pride to ask.

She nods, her hair shifting softly to frame her face, covering her eyes slightly. "I thought so."

And once more, he feels the desperation to get the final remark in tug at his mind, which in turn moves his lips. "Don't get me wrong. I still _am_ a tennis player. This is nothing more than a slight set-back, so don't give me your pity."

He leaves after that, finding it rather pointless to wait around for her response.

* * *

He's begun his rehabilitation. It's _painful_.

It's a thousand times more painful than he expected. But it's not more painful than he can handle.

 _It's all for tennis. Do it for tennis. You love tennis._

Tennis has become his mantra, repeating itself over and over in his mind. The thought of the sport seems to capture his mind like nothing else- it's captivating. Some may call it obsession, but he prefers the term 'dedication'. Without dedication, humans become nothing. They achieve nothing, and do nothing.

Visiting the patient in room 201B also seems to have become a periodic, rather frequent tradition. Each time he goes, she offers him a sheet of clean, crisp blue paper. It becomes progressively darker, and he suspects that by the time he finishes rehab completely, it will be navy. Currently, it's more of a royal shade, rich and bright.

"Apologies, but folding paper really is not my thing," he chuckles lightly, declining her repetitive offer.

"Are you not interested in having a wish granted?"

"Why wait for wishes when you can take action?" he scoffs.

Their meetings have become increasingly common, and sometimes he watches her paint. It's entirely out of boredom, of course, but it's still time wasted none the less. His life has, strangely enough, fallen into some sort of a routine. He wakes up, visits her room, spends around a few minutes sitting next to her bed (once again, entirely out of boredom), and dedicates the rest of his day towards practicing- training. And he's getting better. He knows he is.

"How many cranes have you made now?" He asks.

She smiles. "So you are interested after all."

He responds with nothing but silence.

"Well, I have so far folded 617. I'm getting rather close, if I do say so myself."

"Careful, loosing your desperation and passion is an easy way to pave the way for mistakes in the near future."

She laughs softly. "Desperation? Passion? Such ambiguous word choice is rather open-ended. I can assure you that I have lost neither."

"Perhaps."

They're stuck in a seemingly endless dance- they circle around lies and slide between smiles, ignoring any seeds of ingenuity that have been sowed. Yukimura finds it amusing, how someone so tranquil can leave such a lasting cold burn on his mind and his soul.

"If you don't mind, I would like to read in peace now."

It's honestly the first time she's voluntarily ended their conversation. He's always thought that she was lonely- that she feared being alone. Perhaps he's been mistaken. "Of course. I believe that silence is golden for the mind."

He leaves, but this time he has to stop himself from looking back.

* * *

It's been a few days since they've last conversed. He's been entirely focused on recovery. The doctors say he's close, so close- he's almost ready to leave, to be set free from his prison and unlocked from his chains. In his room, he stares out the window. The nurses who are supposed to bring his IV bags are late. His fingers reach out absentmindedly to rub the velvety green leaf of a daisy. He can still recall their last conversation when she gave it to him:

" _You seem rather melancholic. Flowers should cheer you up."_

" _Pardon my rudeness, but what I truly need at the moment is a miraculous recovery or tennis, not a plant. And seeing as I do not believe in miracles, tennis it is."_

" _Plants are known as God's miracle to mankind."_

" _Yet humans believe that they are God's true gift."_

" _Are you not human yourself?"_

" _They know me as the Child of God for my tennis, have you perhaps heard so?"_

" _I'm afraid not, but that truly does make it rather paradoxical. I would be quite grateful if you were to take one of the flowers at the window. It's rather unfair of me to keep their beauty all to myself. In fact, why don't you take your pick? Choose the one you can feel whispering to your soul."_

So yes, maybe he did laugh at the time and give in. But now, Yukimura is pretty done with the entire matter. Being run down to the wire, he has only one choice of action left- to not water the plant. Surely then, it will die, and she will stop encouraging him to embrace greeneries.

His fingers stroke the delicate white petals, wondering idly how it would feel to pluck them one by one, watching them flutter as they fall to the ground, leaving nothing but a barren yellow center.

The door to his room opens, accompanied by the loud squeak of wheels. His IV cart is here. He walks back to his bed and lies down, readying himself by dismissing all thoughts of the ridiculous flowers out of his mind. He considers hiding it in a cabinet (the saying 'out of sight, out of mind' exists for a reason), but decides against it. It's much more satisfying to watch something so alive and delicate suffer. Some dark, twisted part of his mind wants to stare at the flower as it wilts and cries- he wants to see every last ounce of life slide from its stem, he wants to witness its last breath.

And, of course, the rational part of him thinks he's going insane.

"When will you need your second surgery?"

"A week," he replies cooly.

Yes, in a week, he'll have to once again face the operating room.

 _It's not scary_. He has to tell himself that, because fear is a fatal weakness that will be exploited fully to its limits by the enemy.

"Doctors aren't your _enemy_ , they truly are trying to help you, Yukimura-san."

He wonders how long its been since she's started calling him by his name. "Perhaps that's what you think, but in the end, the only person who can save you is yourself."

"Hm." Her reply is so soft that he barely catches it. "Perhaps you should stop pretending to be alright."

And for once, he looks up at _her_. Not at the walls or the ceiling, not at the photos and paintings and flowers and all the lovely yet terrible things that adorn her room. But just at her.

He takes in her paleness, the way her fingers almost seem to tremble as she folds cranes. He wonders if she's always looked this thin and weak. But no, she must have looked worse, because she's getting better. Hospitals may all be prisons, but he'd certainly choose this one over another one any day. So maybe it's been kind of overcrowded and the receptionists wear fake pink nails. He stopped caring too long ago for him to remember. More importantly, the nurses and doctors are _there_. He doesn't expect them to be helpful, no, but just the fact that they are _there_ makes everything just a slight bit more bearable than before.

"How are the daisies?"

He pushes away the (totally nonexistent) twinges of guilt. "They're lovely."

"I hope you've been watering them."

She reads him well, like no one else. Not even Sanada or his own mother. "Of course."

"They need to be watered at least once a week, you know."

He nods, and a surprisingly comfortable silence ensues, although the pause is rather pregnant in his opinion.

"So-"

"Are you-"

He gestures at her to speak first.

"Are you going to be doing rehabilitation again after the surgery, or…?"

He shakes his head. "No, the surgery should only require a two-day recovery period before I can return to school. It's rather minor, if done correctly."

"…That's nice," she murmurs. "So will you rejoin your tennis team?"

"No."

She looks up, confused.

"I never quite. I always was and still am their captain. Of course, I won't be able to play to the same level immediately. The doctors say that I never will reach where I was before. But once again," Yukimura tilts his head slightly arrogantly. "I _am_ the Child of God. There is no goal that is unreachable, as long as the desire for winning is strong enough."

This brings a small smile to her face once more, and for some reason his heart feels more at rest seeing it grace her lips.

"I have a final rehab session before I rest in preparation for the surgery. Have a nice day." He nods his head slightly, almost all of his gracefulness from before his illness restored.

* * *

"Oi Buchou, play a match with me!" A certain seaweed hair kouhai of his pleads adorably. The wind rushes around them, ruffling his hair and making it twist wildly like seaweed.

"Akaya, give him time to rest," a voice scolds languidly and lazily. Marui pulls out a slice of strawberry cake. "I think I need some more sugar. I haven't had such an intense practice in awhile without you here."

Jackal nods in agreement, untying the power weights from his arm. "Sometimes I wish I was a bit less noticeable in Yukimura's eyes."

Everyone laughs, and Yukimura is struck hard by how absolutely _normal_ his teammates are acting. It's not even forced, because they all know that Akaya cannot act to save his life. They are genuinely acting as if he's been away for a few days on an overseas match. And this stirs some weird rush of emotions inside him that he's never known himself to be capable of before.

"Although it's a real shame you saw through our pranks immediately, right Yeah-gyuu?" Niou's rattail is as messy and cool as ever, although Yukimura swears that he's grown taller and even trickier.

Between watching Niou and Yagyuu impersonate each other, hearing Sanada assign laps to the non-regulars, and feeling the cold wind from Yanagi's quick shots, Yukimura realizes that perhaps he hasn't _just_ missed playing his own tennis- he's missed playing with a _team_.

"So, I hear you have plans after this?" Yanagi raises an eyebrow.

"Yes, I'm picking the last of my things up from the hospital and checking out for now."

"Forever," Sanada says as he comes up behind Yukimura. "I doubt someone like you will be returning."

Yukimura smiles. "Naturally." He waves goodbye a final time and leaves for the hospital, trying to pretend as if there _isn't_ a small spring to his step.

* * *

He enters the building quietly, and is struck by the tang of sickness in the air. Did he really live in such an environment for _months_? A mere two days gone and it already feels completely foreign to him. He gets into the elevator and presses the fourth floor. The elevator dings and he gets out, before looking to his left and realizing that he's gotten off on the wrong floor.

He sighs, and reaches out to press the button again. He doesn't have any business on floor two, so there's really no reason for the elevator to drop him off here. And then his fingers hesitate. There is someone he could visit. Changing his mind, he turns around and begins to stroll down the slightly familiar corridors, searching for a very specific room number.

In all honesty, he's only looking because he has nothing else to do. He's almost entirely sure that he can find her room without even looking. But he pretends, like he always does around her.

He knocks on the door, and there is no response. He pushes it open and-

He freezes. There's a small boy sitting in the bed sheets, staring at him with wide, surprised eyes.

Yukimura's gaze flies around the room, taking in the bare walls and empty ceilings. No cranes.

Slowly, he starts to close the room door, and double checks the number. 201B, no mistake.

He wonders if perhaps she's also been released. And then he notices the flowers on the window sill. No, there's no way she would _not_ bring her lovely plants with her. He doesn't understand what's going on. It's unfeasible, unfathomable, unacceptable- why is her room so _empty_?

He slowly opens the door again and begins to cross the room. He picks up the two flower pots- daffodils and tulips- before managing to flash a half-smile at the little boy. "Apologies, my friend left her flowers here." The boy nods slowly, and Yukimura leaves.

The moment the door shuts in his face, he feels like he's lost it. Slowly, carrying the two flower pots in his arms, he walks towards the receptionist desk. There's no other way to do it- he'll have to ask.

"Excuse me."

The woman looks up, and Yukimuar smiles charmingly. "I was wondering if you could tell me where-" he freezes again. Because lord, _he doesn't even know her name_.

"Where…" he trails off, unsure how to phrase it. How does one ask for someone without their name?

"…Where the previous patient in room 201B is?"

The receptionist stares at him for a moment before typing a few things, her fake nails clacking obnoxiously against the clunky keyboard. She scrolls. Every single click makes his heart jump into his throat, for some reason. Suddenly, she stops. And when he looks up, he knows that something is very wrong. Her eyes are different.

"…Sweetheart, I'm so, so sorry."

He stares.

"I know that you don't want to believe it."

He doesn't damn understand.

"I completely understand. Just because you knew it was coming doesn't mean you were ready for it."

He _stares_. "…I'm sorry, but what are you talking about?"

She pulls out a tissue box and hands a few to him. "I know you're in denial."

"I'm not… _in denial_!" He exclaims, finally losing his cool. "I am Yukimura Seiichi, a patient that was recently released, around two days ago. If you think that I'll fall for ridiculous ploys like that, you are gravely mistaken." His eyes haven't been this cold for awhile now.

The receptionist's eyes widen after she looks down at her screen. "Yukimura Seiichi? Ah, it's you. Of course, I should have known." She bends over a bit and reaches for one of her bottom drawers. "She wanted you to have this."

Somehow, Yukimura manages to fit the large floral box into his arms before the receptionist leaves to use the restroom. He shakes his head. The woman didn't answer his question. Where is… well, whatever her name is? He heads to the terrace and climbs up the stairs, taking them two by two. His expression may be entirely a pokerface, but he's almost positive that his eyes are storming.

He bursts through the metal doors and into a blindingly bright light. The view is beautiful.

And the bench is empty.

He sits down and places his head gently in his hand. What is going on?

"She's dead."

Whipping around, he sees the doctor that first took care of him when he was diagnosed. "Pardon?"

"She's dead, Yukimura-san. You know it."

"No." He's shaking his head for some reason. The uncontrollable word-slide is happening to him again. "She's not _dead_. That's impossible, she looked fine. Patients don't get _worse_ , they get _better_."

The doctor sighs and pats his shoulder awkwardly. "Not all diseases can get healed here. There are some that… well… we just can't do anything about. Like… cancer."

Yukimura arches a slim brow. "Cancer. You're telling me she had _cancer_."

The doctor sighs and nods. Yukimura doesn't even realize that he's left, until suddenly the terrace is deserted and he's sitting alone and sorrowful on a cracked wooden bench, as broken as something deep inside of him is.

Yukimura stares at the box in his arms before his fingers fly into a frenzy. He's clawing at the lid, desperate to see what she's left him. And after he finally opens it…

Cranes.

He should have known.

Slowly, he pulls out a few, and examines them. They're ridiculously painful reminders of the past. He shifts them to one side of the box and begins counting carefully.

1…

2…

3…

….

999\. It doesn't make sense. Why would there be 999 cranes? Why would anyone _not make_ the last one? He re-counts over and over, but no matter how he does it, there are only 999 cranes in the box. And then, at the bottom, he finds it. A piece of blue paper that matches perfectly with the hue of his hair.

But on the page, there's a slightly messy yet elegant scrawl of calligraphy that he manages to read as: "Wish:_".

And slowly, he finds that his fingers are already moving naturally to fold the crane, even though he's never folded _anything_ in his life before. It's as if they have a mind of their own- they tuck and crease and tug, never leaving the paper. He closes his eyes and reminds himself to breath.

Right before he makes the last fold, he stops. He needs a plan. He picks up the pen at the bottom of the box left behind for him, and begins writing.

Because deep down, no matter who lives there, room 201B will be forever empty to him. Room 201B will be holy ground that is pure and forever untainted, untaintable, too beautiful.

Room 201B is a room where part of his heart is stuck forever. Room 201B is a room that needs more flowers and paintings and photos of the ocean, the river, the sea; she'd once told him that his name, Seiichi, reminded her of the sea.

Room 201B is and will eternally be his safe haven in the hospital- a room that needs thousands of paper cranes and millions of smiles. It's a room that saw colorful stains across its history, heard a plethora of lies, and felt the airs of fragile formalities.

Room 201B is the room of a dreamer.

And with that, he finishes the last crane, making sure that the wings cover his one carefully printed word:

'Wish: dreams'

He closes the box and cradles it to his chest, along with the flowers, as if it's the most precious thing in his entire existence.

As he opens the door to his room, he fills up a cup of water and slowly tips it over the daisy pot, watching as the water pushes the dirt aside, sweeping it gently along in a graceful dance.

"Young man, are you alright?" It's a nurse.

He doesn't turn around. "Yes. Yes, I'm quite alright."

And then, just before she leaves…

"Would you mind hanging these cranes up in room 201B?"

* * *

 **A/N: Finishhhh. Well, we just watched Yukimura try to salvage the pieces of his heart. I'm such a terrible tragedy-angst-sad-stuff writer, it makes me cry T-T**

 **Well this is finally done so I can move on with my life and my sleep schedule. It's quite messy and raw, so be tolerant :D**

 **Ja ne~**


End file.
